SPCFC VI: The Protagonist With A Thousand Faces
by AVAAntares
Summary: The sixth installment of the chronicles of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Fictional Characters -- in which archetypes break free, monomyths are splintered, and beverage service is interrupted. And Joseph Campbell spins in his grave...
1. Prologue

SPCFC VI: The Protagonist With A Thousand Faces

PROLOGUE

_They're just harmless character files_, she told herself.

Again and again, she chanted the words like a mantra, as if by the repetition she could absolve herself of any culpability. _It isn't sensitive information. There's nothing of value anyone could learn from them. They're just character files._

The monitor hummed in the dark room, the lines of the latest message burning across the screen. The blonde woman averted her gaze from the glowing words to look at the color-coded folders in her hand, and realized that the pages were trembling in her grip. She had done this a dozen times before; why should this set of files be any different? They were only basic character files, personality reports, placement histories. Nothing of any tactical value whatsoever.

With a deep breath, she opened the top file and tapped a series of code numbers into the computer to retrieve the folder's electronic counterpart from the database. She copied the electronic file and linked it to the message, then opened the next folder to repeat the process. She couldn't imagine why anyone would be interested in these characters, anyway: Here was a psychopathic doctor named Glening. Here was a broken-down fantasy wizard, too generic to have his own backstory. Here was yet another noble-born vampire named Alucard. These characters were of no concern to the SPCFC, beyond filling their mundane roles in their own nondescript fictional worlds.

The problem, this time, lay with the last file in the stack. The woman opened the final folder and looked at the photograph clipped to the top page. The determined eyes of Lucrezia Noin gazed back at her from the picture, and the blonde woman sniffed back conflicted tears.

He had never requested a personnel file before. The names had always been of random, inconsequential characters. This was the first time he had demanded the file of anyone on the SPCFC's roster – but one of the Directors! It had to be a coincidence, she told herself. For all she knew, the names in each message were selected randomly; perhaps Noin's name had simply fallen into this week's lot by pure chance.

Her eyes flicked back to the message on the screen, hunting once again for the name in the signature. She knew that Joker had not sent the message by his own will, if he had sent it at all. She knew that he was nothing more than a hostage. Blackmail. Leverage, to make her do what they wanted.

She knew that, and still she could not resist tapping out the number that would add Noin's file to the list.

"You're a traitor, Wendy Earhart," the blonde woman whispered to herself. The words hung in the empty room, accusing her, as she sent the message.


	2. In Which There Is A Profound Lack of Tea

Chapter I

In Which There Is A Profound Lack of Tea

"I don't suppose there's any news from the outside world?" Amon growled, by way of greeting, as he slouched into a chair. He'd had three days off after the most recent incident, but it hadn't felt long enough. Given the stress of recent events, Amon wasn't sure that a year would be enough time to make him welcome the sight of these walls.

Steed glanced up from the paperwork on his desk and gave a humorless smile. "That depends entirely on which world you're referring to," he replied. "But nothing new from the rogue quarter, and I'm still waiting on a response from the H. A." He waved a hand in the general direction of the tea service. "Tepid coffee and hot water over there, if you'd like something to drink."

Amon raised a mildly shocked eyebrow at his fellow Director. "What, no tea? In _your_ office?"

"There are some tea bags for the hot water," Steed said, making a face that expressed an eloquent opinion on the subject. "Wendy hasn't come in for the past couple of days, and it seems she's the only one on staff who can operate a strainer."

Amon rose from his seat to investigate the service. "What's the matter with Wendy? She's not ill, is she?"

"Just overworked, I think. As are we all." Steed deposited his pen on top of a stack of papers and flexed his fingers with a grimace. "She stayed late several nights to catch up on some filing, but evidently the need for sleep caught up with her at last. Priss has been filling in for her during the day. But Priss," he added sourly, "is a coffee drinker. I haven't had time to brew a pot of real tea today."

Amon stood frowning into the cup of dark liquid he had poured himself. He wasn't sure what Priss drank, but he was certain it wasn't coffee. "How is the cleanup coming?" he asked, tipping a generous amount of cream into his mug. "Was there any major damage to the power grid?"

Steed shook his head wearily. "Electrical is back up, although the surge took out a couple of our backup terminals. Bob and his team have been working on them, and they promise to have the system fully functional by tomorrow. The worst damage, of course, is the massive hole in the wall. I've had a crew working on it for days, but they're having some sort of problem with the dimensional rift." Steed began to rifle through the stacks of paper on his desk, hunting for something. "Apparently Sephiroth didn't just blow a hole through the wall; he teleported _into_ it, which displaced all the matter rather abruptly. It's causing some kind of interference with the reconstruction. Ah, here it is... I haven't looked at it yet, but this is Illya's technical report." He thrust a sheaf of paper toward Amon, who turned the pages dubiously.

"Can it be fixed, or will that pose some kind of security risk for the future?" Amon asked, skimming the report for comprehensible words. Illya had a propensity for highly technical language, and most of the jargon flew well over Amon's head.

Steed shrugged. "As I said, I haven't looked at the report, but I think it would be faster to ask Illya directly. Truth be told, I haven't given it a second thought; I've had more pressing matters to deal with. Sit down; you'll want to look at these, too."

Amon dragged a chair near Steed's desk and balanced his mug next to the gold nameplate reading _Sir John Steed, K.B.E. - Director._ Steed passed him a stack of folders and began annotating verbally as Amon thumbed through the color-coded tabs.

"These are the anomalies we've isolated during the past week," Steed said. "Here, and here, you can see definite signs of external interference. There were minor plot repercussions in three of these worlds, although fortunately there has been only one supporting character disappearance, and we were able to patch it relatively easily. Now, the purpose of each of these visits could be as sinister as materials collection – picking up weapons, or collecting magical data – or something as innocuous as a vacation on the beach. We don't know what they were after in any of these cases; we just know that an outsider, most likely Sephiroth or one of his associates, appeared in each of these worlds at least once.

"Of course, our first order of business," the senior Director continued, "is determining the exact objective of Sephiroth and his supporters – oh, and just so you know, they've been dubbed the Silver Hair Squad around here. Don't give me that look; I didn't start it," Steed chuckled, though from the expression on his face Amon suspected that the older man had helped popularize the phrase, even if he hadn't invented it. "From Noin's report, and the little that Black told us before he disappeared, it seems that kidnapping Noin was just a spontaneous act, and not their real objective for invading headquarters. She said that Sephiroth mentioned something about 'the Item' just before she was abducted."

Amon frowned. "An item? What kind of item?"

"Not 'an item,' I'm afraid. _The _Item." Steed sighed. "Of course it's possible to refer to anything as an item, so we might be mistaken... but I've been doing quite a bit of research in the Archives, and there is one object – an artifact, if you will – that is always referred to as 'the Item' in the texts."

Amon experienced a brief and unwilling flashback to his home world, where feuding organizations had vied for a powerful artifact called the "shard of knowledge." He pushed the memory away and flipped through a folder to the page Steed was indicating.

"The Item," Steed was saying, "has been referenced in texts dating back... well, a century, certainly, and possibly even farther. I've no doubt that it predates the founding of our organization."

Amon perused the highlighted sections of the blocks of text Steed had collected on the page. There were a few scattered mentions of an object, but it was never named. "So... what does the Item do? What kind of power does it have?"

"That," Steed sighed, "I'm afraid we don't know. What we need is a team of crack researchers who can go deep into the Archives and gather information on this artifact."

Amon's brow furrowed. "Researchers, is it... Wait, what about that one fellow – what was his name? Harry Bailey, I think. I've heard he's a genius at research."

Steed squinted in thought, then shook his head. "I don't think we can afford to bring in anyone else at the moment," he said. "We don't have enough experienced personnel to handle a staff retrieval right now, and the way things have been going, I don't want to deal with any character Awareness issues. No, we really need someone who is already on staff."

There was silence in the office as the two Directors mentally ticked through the roster. "I suppose Wendy could do it, if she were here," mused Amon after a moment. "Will she be in tomorrow?"

Steed nodded. "She should be. Priss won't be happy about it, but you could have her continue to fill in for Wendy's normal duties for a few more days." He cast a sidelong glance at the tea service. "But I hope you like coffee."

* * *

Doujima turned at the sound of her name and stepped back toward the open office door she'd just passed. "You called?" she asked, peering around the side of the door frame.

Amon was seated at his desk, framed by a mountain of paperwork on either side. Without looking up, he waved her into the office and gestured to an untidy pile of folders on a chair. "Those need to go back to the Archives," he said, "and there's a list of casefiles that need to be pulled for anomaly comparison. When you're done with that, gather all available personnel in the briefing room. I need to hand out new assignments."

Doujima made a face, but dutifully scooped up the paperwork. "Steed has already gone home for the week, hasn't he?" she asked as she attempted to balance the folders on one arm while cramming the list of files into a pocket. There was an affirmative grunt from the direction of Amon's desk. "Well, I suppose he'll want to talk to you instead, then. Bob asked me to have a Director drop by the Tech department – whenever you have a free moment," she added quickly, seeing Amon's grip tighten dangerously on the pen. "He has some questions about the way you want him to link the backup system to the terminals, or something."

Amon groaned, though the sound was more like a warning growl. "I don't have a free moment. Nor am I likely to, the way these reports keep spawning." He initialed the the margin of the page he'd been working on and slipped it into a folder. "Here. Drop this off with Priss when you go by."

Doujima again jostled the stack of folders to free a hand, and managed to tuck the new file under one elbow. "Anything else you need, while I'm down there?" she asked, uncharacteristically helpful.

Amon glanced up at her for the first time, then looked down at the half-filled cup on his desk with an almost guilty expression. "Actually... Would you mind making some fresh coffee?"

* * *

Doujima had just put a second pot of coffee on – the first having been consumed with alarming rapacity by the handful of operatives gathered in the briefing room – when Amon, looking bedraggled and harried, loomed into the room beneath the weight of several dozen case folders. He deposited them unceremoniously at the head of the table, turned to find Doujima, and pointed wordlessly at the percolator before dropping heavily into his chair.

"Sit," he ordered tacitly, and Mireille, Yorick and Don quietly found their seats. Amon blinked around the table incredulously. "Is this everyone?"

"You said to gather everyone who was available," Doujima reminded him, setting a cup of fresh black coffee at his elbow. "Priss is covering for Wendy, and Wilmer is still out after the, uh... incident with the cactus." There was a distinct giggle beneath the last words, and Amon shot a dark glare in her direction before turning his attention to the coffee.

When he had put himself on the outside of thirty or forty milligrams of caffeine, Amon began to lay out the day's assignments. "I had hoped for a full team of operatives," he prefaced bluntly, "but under the circumstances, we'll all have to pull double shifts to get things under control."

"I don't suppose there are any reserves we could call in?" Mireille suggested, paging through one of the assignment folders. Beside her, Doujima slipped into a chair, cradling her own mug of liquid energy.

Amon swallowed more coffee and shook his head. "Noin is still recovering from the incident a few days ago, and since we lost Alfred..." His words trailed off, and for a few seconds there was silence in the room. It had not been nearly long enough since Alfred's death for his name to be spoken casually.

Don cleared his throat tentatively, interrupting private reminisces around the table. "So," he began, "what are today's objectives?"

"Damage control, for the most part." Amon glanced over the folders fanned out before him on the table and chose one at random. "We have a character withdrawal from F3-AQ; the character has been written into a different form, so we're replacing him with a more appropriate type. Standard memory wipe, identity shift and delivery for the FC. We'll need one person to pull the original FC, and another to shuttle in his replacement – which is a large dragon, apparently. Who wants it?"

Mireille and Doujima exchanged glances and shrugs. "Yurika and I will take it," said Mireille.

Amon slid the folder over to them and chose another. "Next, we have... a continuity bubble in Slayers-1a; it contradicts the source material in Slayers-1n. Protocol for this one should be a basic properties swap, to get a magical dagger into the hands of a supporting character. Shouldn't be too complicated."

Don shrugged. "That sounds like something I can handle," he offered.

Amon pushed the folder toward him. "You'll need local costuming, so see Elton before you go. Next... oh, wonderful," Amon muttered. "Smoothing over some plot ripples in KS-a.12. Apparently Sephiroth's group dropped in there recently and upset the balance of power between two warring nations."

Don's eyes widened. "You mean one of us has to go in there and win a war?"

Amon's eyes flicked over the file. "No. It seems we just need to relocate a little glowing box from one ship to another, and the storyline will take care of the rest."

Yorick drummed his fingers lightly on the table and said dryly,

"A box that guides the battle, win or lose;  
"This task doth fall 'pon him who waits to choose."

Amon handed Yorick the folder and moved on to the next mission. For the next quarter hour they hashed out assignments, and then Amon dismissed them to their duties. When everyone else had gone, Amon gathered his own folders and stood, but his gaze wandered longingly back to the percolator on the side table.

There had to be time for just one more cup of coffee.

* * *

Doujima guided the FC through the crowded rotunda of the Transportal Room. It was a challenge, dodging technicians and operatives while keeping a firm grip on her retrieval subject. Fortunately, he was still a little dazed from the transition between worlds. Or perhaps he had been dazed before she had gone to pick him up; it was difficult to tell, with his odd manner of staring blankly at nothing and mumbling about putting things into his dragon. The poor fellow had certainly had a rough time of it, judging by his physical and mental states. She didn't envy the rest of the characters left in his home world.

Doujima paused by the elevator and glanced quickly at her watch. By now, Mireille would be on her way with the character's replacement, a shiny metallic-turquoise dragon that had been pulled out of an obsolete fantasy series. If she could get this FC into Rehab right away, she might still have time to grab a bite for lunch before embarking on her second mission.

"Pardon..." The voice at her shoulder was weak at first, but then the FC cleared his throat and tried again. "Your pardon, but... where are we going?"

Doujima fixed her usual explain-things-to-the-fictional-characters smile in place and turned to reassure him. "I'm taking you to a room where you can rest and get cleaned up before you go on to your next destination. Don't worry; everything will be explained very soon."

The FC's brow furrowed, and he dropped his eyes from Doujima's face to stare down at his hands. His arms gleamed with an eerie metallic sheen from elbow to fingertip, as if they had been dipped in quicksilver. "This... this wasn't how it was supposed to be," he said, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. "This isn't something I put into my dragon."

Doujima smiled again as she pressed the button for the elevator. She rocked forward on her toes to prevent her foot from tapping impatiently. "Your dragon has been taken care of. One of my associates saw to it personally. It's a beautiful dragon, too," she added, though this character didn't really seem the sort whose vanity would be flattered by such a compliment.

The FC nodded absently and pressed a hand against the wall. He drew his fingers back, peering at the place where his hand had been, and then casually traced the edge of the molding around the elevator door with a silver fingertip. A look of interest was beginning to replace the blank expression on his face. There was a garbage can nearby, and he ran his fingers curiously along the top rim.

Doujima watched the FC as he bent to look at the trash can, poking and examining the plastic liner. A moment later she caught herself drumming her own fingers against her leg, and pressed the elevator button again. What could be taking so long? If this kept up, she wouldn't have time for lunch...

The elevator door opened at last, and with a sigh of relief Doujima ushered the FC into the car. She stepped around the elevator's other passenger to reach the button for her floor, and nearly jumped when he addressed her by name; she hadn't recognized him.

Don Lockwood laughed at her reaction and pressed the button for her. "It's not my normal look, that's for certain," he said. He was garbed in a garish costume with a colorful tunic, high boots and some kind of shoulder armor that stood out from his figure like the wings of an airplane. "I think Elton went a little overboard, but he insists that everyone in the Slayers worlds dresses like this. But I have to admit, the sword is a nice touch."

"I've always thought that cloaks add a lot to a costume," Doujima offered, trying not to snicker at the pontoon-shaped shoulder guards. "This armor doesn't seem very practical, though, does it?"

Before Don could answer, the bell chimed for her floor. "Well, good luck on your mission," Doujima offered as she turned to escort the FC out of the elevator.

But the FC was not behind her.

Doujima spun back toward the opening elevator doors, and at the same moment there was a faint cry from Don as the FC bowled into him with one shoulder, knocking him backward. With a fluid motion that owned nothing of his dazed state a few moments before, the man pulled the sword from the sheath on Don's hip and darted through the doors, weapon in hand. Doujima had a last glimpse of the FC bolting across the lobby toward an open doorway.

"Aw, nuts," said Don a moment later, when he had recovered his balance.

Doujima's description of the situation was far more eloquent, but unprintable.

* * *

Amon just stared at Priss, unable to form words.

"Orders?" she prompted, holding the communicator near her lips as she looked at him.

Amon's mouth moved once or twice, and at last he heard the sound of his own voice, echoing her words. "An FC has escaped... stolen a weapon... and barricaded himself inside the Rehab facilities?"

Priss answered his incredulous look with a tired, level gaze. "That's what she said. What would you like Security to do about it?"

Amon scrubbed a hand over his face. He heard a high, strained laugh, and it disturbed him to recognize it as his own. He glanced back at Priss, who was watching him with an odd expression. "Well. At least he's already in Rehab," Amon said. "Just... try to keep him there, I guess. And see if they can't run him through the program while he's in there."

Priss stared at him, wide-eyed, for several seconds before slowly relaying his orders.

Amon looked back down at the paperwork on his desk, but the words were beginning to blur. "Priss," he said, massaging his eyes with his fingertips, "is there any more coffee?"


	3. In Which The Drinking Of Wine Is Delayed

Chapter II

In Which The Drinking of Wine is Delayed

"Amon, we need a negotiator. He's been barricaded in there for three days, and he's not showing any signs of tiring. The situation has turned into siege warfare, and Security's begun playing poker in the lobby because they have nothing better to do." Doujima stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, and glared at the Third Director. "We need someone to talk him out of the room, at least, or we won't be able to make any progress at all."

Beside her, Priss and Mireille were sorting files into neat stacks. Mireille glanced up from the folders strewn across the table. "Can't we get Yugo for this? He's our standard negotiator, isn't he?"

"No." Amon's voice lacked its characteristic intensity, but it was still firm. "External personnel, even adjuncts, are _right out _– those are verbatim orders from the top. We're on absolute staff lockdown."

"Absolute lockdown? Even though we're short three operatives?" Priss stared at him in disbelief. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're so short-handed that you have your _field operatives _stapling reports." There was an unmistakable edge of resentment to her words; Priss hadn't been out on a mission in nearly two months.

Amon looked up from his own stack of paperwork to meet her eyes. "It's not my decision," he said tiredly. "If it were, I'd have a dozen names on the recruiting list right now. We're overworked and understaffed, but we simply can't risk bringing in anyone new right now."

Something in his tone caught Doujima's attention. She canted her head to one side, watching him quizzically for a moment. "Well, I guess there's nothing we can do except let him sit there for now," she sighed at last. "At least he's reasonably harmless, as long as he stays in the Rehab quad. I've finished my assignments for the day, so I guess I'll run down to the Archives and see if Wendy needs any help."

Amon's eyes narrowed at Doujima's sudden pliability, but he nodded and returned to his work.

"If it's all the same to you," Priss said as Doujima turned toward the door, "would you mind helping us finish things up here? Once we're done with this set of files, Mireille can get back to Character Processing."

Doujima took a place at the table, and for several minutes the only sound was the rustle of paper, punctuated occasionally by the click of the stapler. At last, Mireille set aside a stack of labeled folders and frowned. "I wonder," she mused. "Do you suppose there's anyone in Processing that we could bring in to talk to the FC, maybe convince him that cooperating with us is for his own good? Does he have any friends from his home world who could persuade him?"

Doujima shrugged. "He had a wife and a nephew, but one is a title character and the other is a principal. There's no way we can pull them out for a visit without causing some major plot ripples."

"That's inconvenient. No other family?"

Doujima shook her head and reached for the stapler. "I checked that right away. There was an older brother who died in the first volume, but he was little more than backstory for the nephew."

Amon swiveled around to look at her, the first sign that he'd been paying any attention to their conversation. "An older brother? Where is he now?"

Doujima controlled a smile; Amon could be so transparent sometimes, in spite of that gruff facade he tried to project. "He's in postmortem stasis in another story. I think he's on the retrieval list, in fact. But in order to use him, we'd have to pick him up, REMEDy his memory of the previous world, and convince him that he's really on our side. Considering how short-handed we are, I didn't think that was an option."

Amon drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, thinking. "What kind of story was the brother in?"

"Some kind of period Gothic novel," Doujima replied. "I can get the code if you want it."

Amon's eyes flashed with inspiration. "A Gothic? Which creator? Holt, Whitney, du Maurier, Stewart...?"

"I think it was du Maurier. I can check." She tilted her head at him. "You look as though you have an idea."

Amon turned to his terminal and tapped a few keys. "I may, at that," he said, sounding more optimistic than he had in days. "Get me the code and background on that world, Doujima. I'm going to put in a call to Steed." He glanced over at Priss and Mireille, who were watching curiously. "And I think I may have solved one of our staff issues, as well."

* * *

Steed frowned at the telephone over the rim of his wineglass. Surely, he must be imagining...

The telephone rang again.

With a deep sigh, Steed placed the stemmed glass on an elegant end table and stepped over to the large desk that occupied one half of the room. He lifted the receiver and sank into his comfortable desk chair, mentally preparing himself for the worst. "Yes?"

A few minutes passed as Amon detailed a situation into his ear. Steed found himself glancing longingly at his glass, which sat just out of reach of the telephone cord. He wondered if Amon would notice if he set the receiver down long enough to retrieve it.

Then Amon said something that drove thoughts of wine completely out of Steed's mind. "You want to _what_?" he sputtered, although he had heard the suggestion clearly. Amon repeated it, and Steed winced. "She's not going to like that," he warned. "My ears are still ringing from the last little 'discussion' we had about the role she'd been assigned. I tossed her a bit of a bone with the Itoko spot, but it seems being a random female relative isn't much of a step up from the dead wives' club – except, of course, that she's not dead." He listened for a moment longer. "Well, I suppose you could promise her one, provided you can find something suitable. She's done the older sister bit already." Another pause, more chatter in his ear. "No, that might be too complicated, given the formula restrictions. Try looking under 'long-lost,' as in 'lover,' or 'partner,' or..." Steed's gaze slid unwillingly to the framed photograph which stood on one corner of his desk. With an effort, he tore his eyes away and stared down at the mahogany finish. "That could work. Be sure to give her a selection to choose from, though. She likes to have her say in the matter. Oh, and Amon... it might not be a bad idea to send someone in to try to negotiate with the FC, just in case things don't work out... Oh, I don't know. What about Don Lockwood? He seems a likable chap... That's fine. Yes, let me know when you find out. Good-bye."

Steed dropped the heavy receiver into the cradle and rose to retrieve his wineglass, which he scented and tasted reverently. A few sips later, he found himself back at the desk, the photograph in hand. Within the frame, a slender woman in a form-fitting jumpsuit perched on the fender of a silver Rolls-Royce. At the wheel of the automobile was a dapper and slightly younger Steed, tipping his bowler hat to the camera.

Steed smiled reluctantly as his eyes traced the lines of the picture. "Mrs. Peel," he whispered, "you're needed."

* * *

Doujima jogged to catch up with Amon's long strides as he turned down the hall that led to the Archives. "Do you have a minute?" she asked, breathless from hurrying.

Amon glanced over his shoulder at her. "Not really," he replied, "but I can walk and listen at the same time. What do you have?"

"Suspicions," Doujima answered, and Amon slowed down to give her a serious look. Doujima raised a hand and ticked off each point on a well-manicured finger. "In the past few weeks, there has been a massive increase in the number of anomalies caused by outside interference in fictional worlds. Several of these incidents were related, directly or indirectly, to missions in which our organization was involved. There has also been a direct invasion of headquarters by the same group responsible for that interference. And, although we're incredibly understaffed, there's a lockdown on staff and adjuncts. Therefore..." She wiggled her fingers and winked. "There is a leak, and someone in authority suspects it's among our own personnel."

Amon raised an eyebrow and picked up his pace again. "As usual, your deductive logic is fallacious," he commented.

Doujima grinned. "But the deduction itself is not inaccurate?"

Amon glanced over at her. "No, not inaccurate. But..." he halted abruptly, and Doujima, trying to follow, skidded in her heels on the slick floor. Amon caught her arm above the elbow, as if to steady her, but he gripped it a little tighter than was necessary. "You, of all people, should know where I start looking for moles."

Doujima shook her arm free and pursed her lips into a pout. "All this time, and you're still angry about that? I've already explained why I had to..."

"Oh, I know," Amon interrupted, starting down the hallway again. "You've told me all about your secret mission, and SOLOMON, and your orders from Steed." He turned a glare in her direction. "But I need to be certain that it doesn't become a habit."

Doujima stared at him, aghast. "You _can't_ think that I have anything to do with the Silver Hair Squad?"

Amon rolled his eyes at her use of the ekename. "No, not directly. But it's not exactly a secret that you operate your own market franchise in information – some of which is considered confidential. People's home worlds, for example."

"Oh, and just _who_ was it that asked me to find out what happened to Touko-_san_?"

"As I said, it's not a secret. More to the point, it has consistently been the case since I first met you. You always know more than you admit to, and that automatically makes you suspect. Not to mention a liability."

"That didn't stop you from asking for my help when you were running free," Doujima hissed. "Or would you have trusted just anyone to knock Nagira-_san_ over the head – without killing him? And don't think I didn't catch your little slip in there..."

Amon whirled on her. Doujima felt a cold triumph; he was truly furious now. "What _do _you want, Doujima?" he snapped. "What are you after?"

"After?" Doujima threw her head back and blinked wide blue eyes up at him, her features iced into the picture of innocence. She opened the door to the Archives and bowed, sweeping her arm graciously toward the entrance. "Why, after you."

* * *

"Look, Verity... May I call you Verity?" Don, smiling pleasantly, took a chair across from the FC who had stolen his sword.

"You may." Verity was seated on a corner of the table, one hand wrapped loosely around the hilt of the sword in a way that managed to give warning without actually threatening.

"Thank you. Verity, this stalemate isn't of use to anyone. We all want this to work out so that both sides benefit. Why don't you tell me your terms – that is, exactly what you want from us – and we'll see if we can reach some kind of compromise. Will you try that, please?"

Verity nodded and looked down at his hands, considering the offer. The metallic silver covering his arms had begun to fade over the last few days, and was now visible only as a dull gray shimmer on the surface of his skin. "I want my wife... my queen," he said at last. His brow was furrowed, as if it were difficult for him to remember. His gaze focused briefly. "And... and my nephew, as well. Yes, I want Fitz with us. And all of us conveyed safely to Buckkeep." He raised his eyes again. "I think that will do."

Don nodded, a little helplessly, and self-consciously shifted the necktie that concealed the tiny microphone clipped to his shirt.

Outside the room, Illya pulled a headset away from his ear. "Oh, he wants nice, simple things, doesn't he," he muttered. "And perhaps we should just rewrite his entire story while we're at it, yes?"

Beside him, Bob shrugged and handed another headset to Maximilien, who was supervising the team in the lobby. "Audio's all set, Max," he told the Security head, and then turned back to Illya. "Oh, I don't know. It sounds like he's just asking for his family and his home, really. You can't criticize a man too much for that." He stood and rubbed his hands together. "Okay, then... if we're all done here, I'm going to head back. I have one or two final tests to run, and then backup will be... back up!" He grinned at his own joke.

Illya ignored the pun and stood. "And I have work to do, as well. There is a gaping hole in the corridor that refuses to close, and I must convince the molecular paths to..."

Maximilien grimaced and put on the headset, and Bob chuckled. "Save the detail for the techie types," he told Illya, ignoring the sulky glare he received in return. "Come on, let's go fix stuff."


	4. In Which Diet Cola Is No Substitute For

Chapter III

In Which Diet Cola is No Substitute for The Real Thing (TM)

Amon looked around at his dwindling circle of agents and sighed. With Don tied up in negotiations, the force of field operatives was down to Priss, Mireille, Yorick and Doujima – who, after their spat in the hallway, was no longer speaking to him.

"I've left a few final instructions in the briefing room," he told the three operatives who were listening to him and the one who was pretending not to. "Just go on with your missions as usual. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Leaving 'final instructions' sounds a bit terminal," Mireille said, a faint line appearing between her fine blonde eyebrows. "You _are _coming back from this retrieval, aren't you?"

Amon drew a deep breath. "I certainly intend to," he said. "But on the minuscule chance that I don't, contact Steed for any emergencies."

For some reason, this contingency plan didn't seem to reassure the little group, who fidgeted and looked distinctly uncomfortable as he turned toward the waiting portal. All except Doujima, who was making a great show of inspecting the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Putting Mireille's words firmly out of mind, Amon steeled himself for the disorientation of portal travel and stepped into the circle of light.

The portal deposited him on an even green lawn, well cared for and with pleasant beds of flowers placed at intervals around the yard. In front of him, a path led up to the porch of a quaint summer cottage. Amon took a steadying breath, smoothed his palms down the front of his jacket, and walked to the door.

He knocked politely.

Several seconds passed, during which Amon grew several centuries older, and at last the door opened to reveal a very beautiful woman, posed in the doorway in a perfect attitude of surprised curiosity. She looked up at Amon from dark, lovely eyes, framed by dark, lovely hair. "Yes?"

Amon cleared his throat. He had been warned what to expect, but there was no way to prepare for the reality. "Good afternoon, Miss..."

Before he could finish speaking, the woman's eyes narrowed. "You must be new," she said flatly. "I haven't answered to 'miss' in... oh, never mind. You might as well come in... since I doubt I'll be able to get rid of you any other way," she added under her breath. The woman stepped back and held the door open just long enough for Amon to step inside. "Shoes," she ordered, pointing to a low shelf just inside the door. She let the door slam shut behind him and turned her back on him.

Amon cocked an eyebrow at her, mildly ruffled. "I know a _getabako_ when I see one, thank you. I _am_ Japanese."

The woman shrugged. "So you are. You can't tell by looking, these days. Infernal character designers have no sense of culture." She sauntered into the kitchen, where he heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening. "Usually Steed comes himself," she called, "when he bothers to drop by, which isn't often. What brings a rookie like you here?"

Amon broke off his search for a pair of guest slippers and resisted bristling at the comment. "I'd like your assistance with something," he called back. He briefly weighed the odds of her actually asking his name, but decided to cut his losses. "I'm one of the Directors. My name is Amon."

"One of the Directors?" the woman echoed over the sound of clinking glass. "There's more than one? My, these _are_ progressive times." She reappeared with a bottle and a pair of glasses in her hand and indicated another doorway with a wave of her head.

Amon followed her into the parlor and took a seat on one of the sofas – a stiff Victorian piece, completely at odds with the Asian entryway. While the woman poured some dark liquid over ice in the glasses, Amon looked around curiously at the rest of the furnishings. The parlor was a three-century catalogue of Western furniture styles: The Victorian settee vied with a deep-cushioned leather couch, which sat arm-to-arm with a wing-back armchair, which shared a leather-and-brass-tack end table with a horsehair-seat rocking chair, next to which was an orange vinyl-covered ottoman with tapered legs. A glass-topped coffee table divided the couches from a large flat-panel television set, which was mounted over a waterfall-front buffet piece pushed against the wall. A heavy glass mirror with a gilded frame loomed threateningly over one of the chairs, balanced by an elegant Waterhouse painting on the adjoining wall. A shelf near the door was loaded with a bizarre aggregation of figurines, knick-knacks and kitschy objects.

Amon realized the woman was watching him, her attractive lips curling into a smirk. "Souvenirs," she proclaimed, waving the empty bottle to indicate the furniture. "A piece from each of my many lives. I can't seem to be rid of them, no matter how much I'd like to." She picked up one of the glasses and took a sip, but her face curled into an expression of disgust. "Ugh. I'd forgotten how disgustingly sweet this diet cola tastes. I keep it only for crash dieting, when I need to look like I'm wasting away from some chronic disease, but I've run out of regular. You didn't happen to bring me any, did you?" the woman asked almost hopefully as she retrieved a set of cork-bottomed coasters from the end table and placed one beneath each glass and the bottle.

Amon replied apologetically that he had not brought any drinks at all, and the woman gave a humorless chuckle. "No one ever remembers," she lamented caustically. "Generations pass, and I tell them over and over, but nobody brings me anything but work." She sighed and leaned back against the leather cushions of her couch. "So. You want me to do something for you. Let me guess... you need an ex-wife? A dead sister, perhaps? A tragic female acquaintance for purposes of backstory?"

Amon shifted on the uncomfortable settee, silently reviewing his long-rehearsed diplomatic phrasing. "Actually, I came prepared to offer you your choice of roles, in exchange for helping us. We need a character extracted, and I think you are the best person to do it."

The woman frowned and raked her long bangs back from her eyes. "No doubt by portraying said character's ex-wife, dead sister, long-lost lover, _et cetera_," she remarked dryly. "And the roles? I don't suppose any of them are something innovative and original – say, a romantic lead or anything?" She drummed her fingers along the edge of a couch cushion.

Amon withdrew an envelope from an inside pocket and extracted several pages covered in close-set type, laying each one out on the coffee table. The woman poked through them disinterestedly, skimming the character descriptions. "So," she mused after a moment, "we have a slight variation on the theme. A _live_ sister, which is marginally better than a dead one; an ex-wife who has the occasional speaking role; then the standard fallbacks: recently deceased mother, unseen mother living in another country, and an undefined female acquaintance in backstory." She leaned back against the cushions again and arched a perfect eyebrow at Amon. "Nothing stunning, I'm afraid. Is this the best you have to offer?"

For lack of anything else to do with his hands, Amon stacked the pages and re-folded them. "I realize that you haven't been completely satisfied with your roles in the past..." Here the woman interrupted with a loud and derisive snort. Amon continued, "...but the fact of the matter is that you occupy a very unique position in the fictional realm..."

"By 'unique,' you of course mean 'dead or off-camera,'" she interjected venomously. Flicking her head to toss her bangs aside, she leaned forward and glared into Amon's eyes. "Look," she hissed, "I know you're new at this, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and spell it out for you. I've been at this game _much _longer than you have, and I know all the limitations. I'm an archetype, for heaven's sake – one of the real ones – but for the last century or so, my roles have all devolved into stereotypes. Do you have any idea how annoying, how frustrating, how... _boring _that is?" She took another sip of diet cola and made a face as she swallowed. "Let me illustrate for you. Let's look at my last, oh, dozen or so roles..." She began to tick them off on her fingers. "Bertha Mason Rochester – deceased wife. Joan Blakeney – deceased mother. Alice Clayton – deceased mother. Rebecca de Winter – deceased wife. Gilraen – deceased mother. Ikari Yui – deceased wife _and_ mother. Rinrei – deceased ex-girlfriend. Lily Potter – deceased mother. Yukishiro Tomoe – deceased wife and sister. Although, thanks to a merciful flashback, at least I got to _do_ something in that role... But are you seeing a trend, here? The onlything Steed has found for me lately that's anything like a real role is Itoko, and she's still just the cousin of a principal." The woman had worked herself into a state of agitation, and Amon could see the muscles twitching beneath the skin of her well-shaped jaw. "And to exacerbate an already maddening situation, we archetypes don't have the benefit of clearing our memory between each role, unlike you run-of-the-press fictional characters. You can't imagine what it's like to carry the memories of hundreds of pointless, unfulfilled lives from one role to the next. There have been so many that I can't even remember where I began..."

She broke off abruptly, and silence stretched over the house as the woman looked away and attempted to compose herself. The melting ice clinked in the glasses. Somewhere, in another room, a clock struck the hour.

Amon traced a finger along the edge of the character profiles in his hand, thoughtful. "We don't create the roles," he said at last, "we can only fill them. And there are certain restrictions governing where archetypes can be placed. That said..." He tapped the folded papers against his palm. "I think there _may_ be a loophole or two that we could use to get you a more interesting character type."

The woman's eyebrows lifted fractionally.

"I'll have to do some research to see if it's even possible," he continued. "But in the meantime, I can offer you a temporary position that's a little different than what you're used to. It might make for a nice change of pace."

The woman shifted on the couch and lifted her glass, tilting it to examine the watery diet cola. "I'm listening," she said.

- - -

"This isn't... _instant _coffee, is it?" Noin asked dubiously, sloshing the dark, viscous liquid around the paper cup. She'd been told that the staff room had run out of clean mugs days before, though Noin couldn't imagine how, if this was all that the operatives had to drink...

"No, it's regular," Mireille replied. She glanced quickly around the room and dropped her voice to add, "but that's the pot Priss made this morning. I'd recommend only drinking Yurika's..." She broke off and buried her nose in a file folder as the door opened to admit Priss and Doujima, who gasped at the sight of the Second Director.

"Noin!" With a squeal of delight, Doujima flounced across the room and flung her arms around the Director's neck. "I'm so glad you're here to save us! But I thought you weren't coming in until next week...?"

Noin extracted herself from Doujima's stranglehold and retreated to the relative safety of her own desk. "Steed called and asked if I could cover while Amon was out on a special mission," she explained. To be accurate, Steed had very nearly begged her, intimating that the entire organization was on the verge of collapse, and had bribed her at last with the promise of a two-week vacation in the world of her choice – to be redeemed at some unspecified time in the future, of course. Noin wasn't planning on packing her bags anytime soon, but the offer was a testament to how concerned Steed really was about the situation.

Judging by the stacks of paperwork and backlogged cases that had greeted her upon her arrival, Noin was inclined to agree with Steed's assessment. Now it was a matter of crisis management: She had to prioritize and deal with the most critical items first. Noin cleared a spot in the center of her desk and dug a pad and pen out of a drawer.

"Priss," she said, "run down our live roster."

Priss glanced around the office. "Present company, plus Don Lockwood – he's currently handling negotiations in the Rehab siege – and Yorick, who is out on a mission at present. Wendy is in the Archives, working on some major project for Steed."

Noin's pen hovered above the pad for some seconds. "Dare I ask what the 'Rehab siege'... No, setting that aside for the moment. Is that _everyone_?"

"Wilmer is technically on standby, but he took some major damage on his last run, so he hasn't been active in close to a week. And the Third is out fishing, as you know, but we're hoping he comes back soon." Priss shrugged. "That's it for live ops, plus the core staff – Tech, Security and the rest."

Noin tapped her pen absently on the desk as she glanced over the list of names. "We're really running bare, aren't we?" she sighed. "Well, we must do what we can. To begin with... Priss, I want you to handle Character Processing for the time being. And call down to Medical or wherever Wilmer is and tell him to get to the staff room ASAP."

Mireille raised an eyebrow as Priss turned to go. "You really want to put him on active duty? I mean, given his record..."

"Oh, not active duty," Noin replied, grinning. "He's going on KP. If we're going to get up to speed, I think we're going to need a lot of coffee, and _somebody_ has to wash those dishes." She waited until the door had closed behind Priss, then continued. "Mireille, in addition to case reports, you are now on official coffee-making duty. You can do your filing in the staff room if you have to, but I want at least one full carafe available at all times... and Priss isn't going to find it empty, _capiche_?" she added pointedly.

Mireille gave a mock salute and gathered up her paperwork. "I'll start on that mission right away," she said.

Noin nodded and turned to the last operative in the room. "Now, Doujima... what in the world is going on in Rehab?"

Doujima chewed her lower lip, looking sheepish. "Um, about that... are you sure you wouldn't like some fresh coffee first?"


	5. In Which 'Drinking Lime and Coca Cola'

Chapter IV

In Which "Drinking Lime and Coca-Cola" is Not A Song

Sephiroth ran one elegant, gloved finger along the edge of the monitor. The text scrolled brightly along the screen, responding to his magnetic caress. A smile – or the dangerous curve of the lips that passed for one, where Sephiroth was concerned – ghosted over his face.

"Enishi," purred Sephiroth, his voice infusing the word with both silk and steel. The owner of that name, standing a few paces away, could not suppress the tingle that iced the back of his neck. He subconsciously squared his posture to attention, though his leader had not turned to look at him. "Thanks once again to our guest..." Sephiroth's aquamarine eyes flicked coldly toward a blond man seated in the corner. "...we have our next target. Would you like to handle this one?"

It was not a question, and both parties knew it. "As if you needed to ask," Enishi answered casually, trying to salvage some of the arrogant dignity he'd possessed in the days before Sephiroth had sought him out. "You didn't bring me here just to stand around and beautify the place."

Sephiroth flicked his icy gaze toward Enishi – a split-second warning, nothing more – and brushed his fingers over another piece of electronic equipment, which immediately scrolled out a printed page. Sephiroth folded the paper between two long fingers and held it out. Enishi reached automatically to take it, but Sephiroth's gaze caught Enishi's and held it for an eternal instant.

"This font of knowledge may not last much longer," Sephiroth warned, his eyes gleaming with an ethereal light. "Our counterparts at the SPCFC may be slow, but they are not incompetent. It is only a matter of time before they seal off the source of our information." His black-gloved grip tightened imperceptibly on the paper before releasing it. "Don't waste this opportunity."

Enishi crushed the paper in his fist. His hands would not shake. He would notshow his leader any sign of fear or weakness. He put a roguish smile on his face and shrugged. "Hey, this is _me _you're talking to," he replied easily. "Do you expect anything less than absolute victory?"

- - -

Noin squinted against the white light of the portal as Amon's dark silhouette dropped in, followed an instant later by a more petite figure. The portal winked out behind them, and Amon blinked for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted. He gave a mild start when he saw Noin.

"Why are you here?" he asked without preamble.

"Good afternoon to you, too," Noin replied dryly. "Steed called me in as your backup. And a good thing he did, considering the fiasco in..." She broke off as Amon's guest stepped into view. The sight whisked Noin's words away, leaving her speechless.

The woman was indescribably lovely. She was ageless, nationless, utterly undefinable apart from her stunning, timeless beauty. She returned Noin's look with dark, gleaming eyes. Noin caught herself an instant short of staring, and managed to drag her eyes away from the woman to prompt Amon for an introduction.

Amon cleared his throat self-consciously before addressing the woman with atypical deference. "Permit me to introduce Lucrezia Noin – another Director, along with Steed and myself." He glanced for a moment between Noin and the woman beside him, looking vaguely perplexed. "Excuse me, but... is there a name you would prefer to use while you're here?"

The woman arched an eyebrow. "So many to choose from," she replied in a voice that matched her looks: Smooth, cultured, rich, with a mellow timbre and just a trace of amusement. She continued with a sidelong glance at Amon. "I could... but no, it would probably distract you if I went by your mother's name. I wouldn't want to be too familiar." Noin caught the shocked recognition that distorted Amon's usually-immobile features, but the woman went on with hardly a pause. "Tomoe will do, I think; that identity was less dull than most, and I have a certain fondness for interesting roles. I'll be Yukishiro Tomoe." Some subtle element in her appearance shifted minutely as she spoke; now, although she looked the same, it was obvious that the woman was young – younger than Noin herself – and clearly of Japanese ancestry. "_Hajimemashite_," she added, giving Noin both a demure bow and a measuring glance.

With only an instant's pause to think, Noin answered the challenge and the greeting with a bow of her own. "_Doumo yoroshiku onegaishimasu_," she replied, and thought she saw a flicker of approval in the woman's dark eyes. For once, Noin felt thankful for Treize's insistence that his officers be able to exchange polite greetings – as well as terms of surrender – in at least five languages.

"Well," said the woman, hefting a large, well-traveled suitcase with no trace of her previous coyness, "let's not stand in the hallway. I hope I have my own quarters this time?"

Amon flung an imploring glance at Noin, who did some quick calculations in her head. "Of course," Noin said smoothly. "but since it was on rather short notice, I'm not certain if everything is prepared. Amon, why don't you take Tomoe-_san_ to the staff room for some refreshment, and I'll call ahead and see if her room is ready."

Tomoe's mouth quirked suspiciously, but she allowed Amon to take her suitcase and guide her out of the Transportal Room. As soon as they were out of sight, Noin dashed to the nearest communicator.

"Doujima," she snapped into the receiver, "emergency. Whatever you're working on can wait. Listen: I need you to clear out the old media room. Get some of the boys from Security to help you with the monitors. Sweep it out as best as you can; there's no time to use the scrubbers. As soon as the room is clean, move the cot from Steed's office in there, and set it up like an apartment. And have it done in five minutes."

A quarter of an hour later – allowing as much extra time as she dared – Noin tapped at the door of the staff room to announce that Tomoe's quarters were ready. A brief walk later, she introduced their guest to a flushed but triumphant Doujima, who escorted her into the newly-appointed apartment.

Glancing around the small room, Noin had to admit that she was impressed with Doujima's improvisational decorating: Steed's office cot occupied one corner, its drab gray blankets replaced with an assortment of bright quilts and throw pillows. An old filing cabinet had been pressed into service as a bureau, its flaking paint concealed beneath what must once have been a satin table runner. A vase of artificial flowers sat on a low bench beside the bed, and a woven rug covered the scuffed noise-reduction tile of the former media room. On the wall was a small hanging tapestry depicting a pair of butterflies in a field.

"We owe Elton big-time for this," Doujima whispered as Noin passed her in the doorway.

Tomoe explored the room, taking in the hasty arrangement of the furnishings, and gave Noin and Doujima a knowing glance. Still, she bowed politely and thanked them for their effort, and Noin was left with the disconcerting feeling that this had been another test of some kind.

While Tomoe was settling in, Amon led Noin and Doujima back to the staff room. "We're down another operative," he said grimly. "Well, technically, we've just failed to recover one that was already out of commission..."

"Amon," Noin said, rubbing one temple, "I don't have the energy just now to puzzle out anything that isn't said clearly. Just tell me what happened."

Amon sighed. "As you may have noticed, our guest is a very attractive woman."

Doujima muttered something unflattering under her breath in regard to Amon's observation skills, but Noin waved her to silence. "Your point?"

"You suggested that I take her to the staff room, which I did. But when we arrived, Wilmer was already there..."

Noin cringed. "...Washing dishes. Oh, no. Do I even want to hear what happened?"

Amon shuddered. "You might, if Wilmer ever offends you to an unpardonable degree, and you're feeling vindictive. But I'm sure you can imagine her reaction to his... erm... amorous advances. Suffice it to say that our kitchen stock has decreased by three mugs and one plate, while I'm afraid Wilmer's stock is considerably more... diminished."

Even Doujima, feigning disinterest in their conversation, winced.

They had reached the block of Directors' offices, and Noin slowed near her door. "So what now?" she sighed. "We're pretty well strapped, to borrow one of Steed's descriptives."

"First, I have to put in a call to Steed about our lovely archetype," Amon said, glancing back toward the hall that led to Tomoe's room.

"Ah, so that's what she is? I was wondering." Noin followed Amon's gaze and blew out a long breath. "Not quite what I expected."

"You have no idea," Amon muttered. He turned to look at Doujima for the first time since his return. "I don't know what kind of supply connections you have," he said, almost pleading, "but use them. I want the staff room stocked with a _ludicrous_ amount of cola. Non-diet cola; that's very important. Believe me," he glanced from Doujima to Noin, his expression strained, "we want to keep that woman happy."

- - -

"I don't like this," Tomoe announced abruptly. "It's absurd, ridiculously convoluted, and most likely won't work." Her face screwed into a beautiful pout. "And I never liked that woman, anyway. Is there any more Cherry Coke?" She rose fluidly from her seat to retrieve another bottle.

Amon glanced at Noin, whose hands were clenched white-knuckled on the table, and willfully checked his own temper. "It's just a simple retrieval," he began again.

Tomoe turned back to frown at them, a glass cola bottle dangling from the elegant fingers of one hand and a wedge of lime in the other. "No, it is _not _a simple retrieval," she replied. "It is an idiotically Gordian progression of potential failures. You want me to pose as a character I portrayed decades ago so that I can impersonate a similar character from a completely different storyline for the purpose of luring a fictional character who, in a previous incarnation, was briefly involved with a character whom I may or may not resemble back to headquarters, so that you can brainwash said character into impersonating another of his previous incarnations, which may or may not be recognized by a rogue fictional character – notable for his spotty memory and mental instability – as his long-since-deceased brother, so that he _might _have a shot of persuading him to cooperate so that you can end the stalemate he has effected within your headquarters and perform a complete memory wipe on him, after which he and the other FC will be dumped into other roles with the hope that all the mind-tweaking does not cause them to become Aware and cause both their worlds to implode. Did I get that right?"

Despite his aggravation, Amon was impressed that she had managed to summarize the entire plan in one breath. "Not exactly," he countered. "It's not nearly so nebulous as you make it sound. It's in our records that Chivalry Farseer and Ambrose Ashley are compatible character types. If you retrieve Ambrose, it will be no trouble to impress Chivalry's memories on him. According to canon text, Verity and Chivalry were very close, so having his older brother on our side should convince Verity to stand down. And I should think that you've portrayed enough du Maurier heroines that this should be easy for you." Amon shot her a pointed glare that his survival instinct should have warned against, had it not been worn to shreds by an hour of circular arguing. "It's not as if Rebecca de Winter ever appeared in person, anyway, so I thought you'd be thrilled at an _in camera _role. Weren't you the one begging for a romantic lead?"

Tomoe's eyes narrowed dangerously, and she crushed the lime vindictively over a glass of ice. "There is a difference between a romantic lead," she hissed, splashing cola over the citrus-ice mixture, "and posing for five minutes as the fake widow of a named ex-character for purposes of manipulating him into sacrificing his life and memories to the flimsy plans of a third party."

A loud _thump _startled Amon out of the heated reply he was composing. He glanced over at Noin, who was now on her feet, palms slammed flat on the tabletop. "_Enough_," she said, and Amon inched back in his chair at the command. Every once in a while, Noin slipped back into OZ lieutenant mode, and Amon had learned to clear the way when her voice took on a military tone.

"You seem to be operating under the misconception that we care whether or not you're satisfied with the role we choose for you," Noin snapped, "so let's correct that before discussions continue. We didn't ask you here out of any sense of obligation for your happiness or well-being, nor even out of pity. Quite honestly, I don't care if you're stuck as a flashback mother for the rest of your miserable existence. You want a romantic lead? Fine. Good luck with that. Your odds of choosing your next role are about the same as ours.

"The only reason you're here drinking lime and Coca-Cola instead of hanging in stasis waiting for your next role is because things in the fictional realms are going from uncontrolled to chaos – and if we don't intervene, we're _all_ going to be stuck in an eternity of mediocre stereotypes. So if you want to see your role options improve, I recommend that you stop whining and start cooperating." Noin settled back into the chair, radiating authority. "And you can begin by giving us some constructive suggestions for solving the Verity issue, instead of simply shooting holes in the only plan that has been proposed thus far."

Tomoe's dark eyes, which had flashed wide open during Noin's diatribe, narrowed to burning slits. "I do have a suggestion," she said icily. "Why don't you retrieve him yourself? As I recall from the text, Ambrose Ashley kept his favorite hunting dog at his side. A _female_ one. The role would be so natural for you..."

Just at that moment, a warning claxon sounded, and Amon leapt gratefully to his feet. "Thank God and all the Authors," he muttered under his breath. "An emergency."


End file.
